


it's about the way you look at me

by kaminagi



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2015-07-03
Packaged: 2018-04-07 10:45:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4260372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaminagi/pseuds/kaminagi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Despite the way Arthur dresses, the only crime against fashion he commits is buying a scarf that Ariadne clearly saw first.  But she finds the perfect revenge.</p><p>Or how Ariadne learned to stop worrying about the plaid and love his smile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it's about the way you look at me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [metonymy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/metonymy/gifts).



> For this [prompt](http://anachronistique.tumblr.com/post/121321128553/things-im-not-sure-im-going-to-write-but-i-want) by metonymy.

When Ariadne steps into the warehouse where she's supposed to be learning about what exactly this work placement entails, she notices there's one person inside already. The individual, from what she can see of him from behind, is wearing an olive-green military coat, his sleeves rolled up, pants that look like they're made of some sort of dark brown canvas material, and boots. She likes the coat.

The tech guy, she assumes, from the way she can see him fiddling with a device of some sort with a screwdriver. His movements are strangely exact, particularly when he suddenly straightens up at the sound of Cobb's and her footsteps.

"Arthur," Cobb calls out.

The man turns at the sound of his name. She's a bit taken back by what she sees. After all, she was expecting someone... plainer looking. Or frumpier.

"Oh, I'm Ariadne," she says, when she realizes he's staring somewhat intently at her, because he's clearly waiting for a response.

He takes the hand she's offering, reciprocates her firm handshake, and then she notices he's still looking at her, in a pleased appraising sort of way. Like he finds her curious. It's a little intimidating.

"That's a lovely scarf," he remarks.

She looks down at the faintly-patterned pastel silk around her neck.

"Uh... thank you?"

Oh, wow, she thinks, when her eyes return to his face. He has dimples when he really smiles.

 

 

 

Being new to the whole industry of mind crime, Ariadne wonders if there's some sort of dress code. Probably not.

But she can't help noticing the way everyone dresses mostly because when she's not building models and testing new levels (the allure of limitless pure creation, the thing that draws her back in spite of a nasty encounter with Cobb's guilty subconscious in the shape of Mal), what else is there to do? It's pretty amusing on those dry days when everyone is doing paperwork and she's stuck gluing things together.

Eames, for example, seems like he knows how to dress fashionably, but just doesn't bother. The salmon pink linen and mustard jacket combination is something he doesn't care to give up. Yusuf wears sweaters, even when it's sweltering hot. Saito wears a suit. He's a businessman and not one of those weird eccentric ones who show up to business meetings in wetsuits. She thinks that Cobb might be wearing the same blue shirt he wore on Tuesday.

But Arthur?

He dresses like a schlub. Like, he bought all his clothes at a vintage thrift store. And from what she's learned about working in dream share, successful jobs pay big. It's not like he can't afford more expensive clothes, especially since she's pretty sure he's using the latest version of the iPhone and high-quality Moleskine notebooks. (His boots are actually really expensive though. Six hundred dollars American. Given he's on the run a lot, Ariadne supposes that makes sense, to have very high quality boots.)

And the weirder thing happens to be how _tidily_ he wears them. He doesn't tuck in his shirts or anything, but his clothes don't look slept in or wrinkly, his pants all look ironed, and they're clean and not all smelly. Uh, not that she's taken to _smelling_ Arthur, who is probably Arthur-scented. Like evergreen trees and cologne or something really nice. It just seems odd to her how carefully he wears his clothes.

"How many of your shirts," she ventures to ask one day, when he's teaching her how to operate the PASIV, "happen to be plaid?"

Because she swears that he's worn at least five different plaid shirts, with varying colour combinations. (She is not going to tell him that she really likes the green and blue one, with the yellow lines.)

Arthur's response is to give her a rather unreadable look and then pull at the black t-shirt he's wearing under his red and blue checked shirt. It's got a print of the Smiths on it. Again, another item from his wardrobe that appears to be from the thrift store.

"Don't be obtuse," she grumbles and he gives her a smile.

She's finding that she really likes his smile. And her acute observational skills have told her that he doesn't smile like that to everyone. It also makes her heart skip a little when he does.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Arthur says way too mysteriously, and directs her attention back to the machine and its workings.

 

 

 

It's maybe her second week at her "work placement" when she discovers her scarves keep disappearing.

Detective Ariadne narrows her suspects down to five people, since that's all the people in the warehouse she can possibly blame. Naturally, she accuses Eames first because he is foremost a thief of material goods. And naturally, he rolls his eyes at her.

"While I am flattered," he says, "that I am the first person in this proximity you would consider as the perpetrator of this heinous crime, given it is my specialty and all that, why the bloody hell would I want your scarves?"

Ariadne frowns. She hadn't considered that. "You're doing it to mess with me."

Eames gives her a toothy grin that she doesn't like. "I have other ways of doing that, my dear. How goes the development of the model for the third level, for example?"

So she strikes Eames off the list (and attempts to do the same to his foot because he's making her neurotic about her model and even he knows to be professional and not to actually mess with her models because this job has a lot more life and death stakes than usual). Her next suspect is Yusuf.

"Um... because you might have used it as a rag to clean up your chemicals?" she tries lamely, because really she and Yusuf are absolutely professional around each other and he probably took them by accident.

Yusuf's confused expression also eliminates him. At her drafting table, Ariadne has to think about her remaining suspects. Saito could probably just buy the entire silk production factory (or probably get some handwoven and embroidered replica that had ten times the quality) and wouldn't do anything as tasteless as resorting to petty theft and stealing a lady's neckwear. That leaves just Cobb and Arthur. They're both thieves, but she has no rationale as to why either of them would take her favourite scarf.

"Well," Arthur remarks when she brings it up. "I'm sure you'll find it eventually."

"It was my favourite," she says more miserably than necessary. "And it's the third one that's disappeared."

Arthur gives her a thoughtful expression, but it passes when he turns their attention to more important matters.

"So, for the second level..."

 

(She is mildly annoyed at him the entire time she's teaching him the layout. Arthur, it seems, is as contradictory as those paradoxes he likes so much.

Because by now, Ariadne's figured out that for someone whose clothing style looks rather carelessly chosen, he's strangely precise with everything. He knows the details of an entire job, who to call to make arrangements for everything from lunch to fake passports, how to procure things that _normal_ people should not procure. Arthur is the sort of person one could easily underestimate, just because his rather casual look distracts from what he's actually capable of.

He notices _everything_.

And here Ariadne thought that he'd be _helpful_ with finding her scarf. So much for his "lovely scarf" comment. Hmmph.)

 

 

 

Failing to find her favourite scarf, Ariadne resorts to scouring the flea markets in search of a replacement. She knows a stall that sells the loveliest silk scarves she's ever seen at the most reasonable prices she can get them.

It's too bad she goes on a day when the market is way too crowded. She's poking her head between people, barely bothering with the 'excuse mes' and 'sorrys' when she gets to the stall and sees the most perfect piece of silk ever created. More paisley than floral, but her favourite colours and it matched everything in her wardrobe. Of course she needs to own it.

Just when her fingers close around it, some bastard in a plaid shirt snatches it up. Ariadne shoves her way through to see who her rival is, just so she knows who she's up against if she needs to bargain with the merchant. (She and Jeanne are on first-name basis given she's such a frequent and loyal customer, so she's bound to favour her, right?)

"Arthur?" she gapes at him.

"Ariadne, hello," he says, not loosening his grip on the scarf _at all_.

" _Whyareyouhereandgivemethatscarforelse_ ," she says all in one breath, not looking away from him the entire time. Because she _needs_ this scarf. Obsessively.

"Or else," Arthur repeats, amused and not looking away from her either.

Oh, she is so going to Mexican standoff this if she has to. She doesn't even care if Arthur applies his military fighting techniques from who-knows-where he learned them from and superior knowledge and ability to acquire firearms also from who-knows-where. She will not be distracted by his pretty eyes. This scarf will be _hers_.

Arthur breaks eye contact first. Ariadne is convinced she's won and makes a tug at the scarf, except Arthur's grip hasn't slackened at all and he's turned to Jeanne with a different sort of smile than she's ever seen. Oh god, what was he doing?

"What's your asking price, Madame?"

"Eh?" Jeanne raises an eyebrow and looks over at the scarf. "That pretty one? That one looks like the Hermès one... so, 9 euros."

"I'll pay 10."

Ariadne tugs the scarf. "Jeanne, as your most loyal customer, I'll pay 11 euros."

"Twelve."

" _Fifteen_." Ariadne gives Arthur her patented death glare. It has worked on absolute giants and given everyone is a giant to her, it's more effective than whatever Aunt Lucy happen to have taught Paddington Bear.

"Twenty-three," Arthur counteroffers smoothly, "And I'll take the filigree brooch over there on top of that."

Ariadne doesn't have that many euros in her purse and Jeanne doesn't take debit or credit. Her shoulders drop in defeat.

"Sold to the young gentleman in the checkered shirt with excellent taste in jewellery," Jeanne declares. "Désolé, Ariadne. Business, you know."

She sullenly lets go of the scarf and watches Arthur, who should have _no good reason_ for buying the most beautiful silk scarf she's ever seen, pay Jeanne, who packs up the scarf with an elegant sterling silver brooch in tissue paper.

"And why do you need a scarf?" Ariadne grumbles. Arthur has the decency not to look triumphant.

"There's a girl I'm trying to impress," he says rather candidly. "She happens to have really good taste in scarves."

To say she's feeling rather disappointed all around today, first with the scarf, then with Arthur's mystery girl who happens to have good fashion sense, cause her shoulders to sag a bit more. Arthur notices.

"Hey, how about I buy you lunch?"

Free lunch? Ariadne feels herself perking up. Arthur brings her to some hole-in-the-wall place that nobody else knows about, except hipsters who all seem to enjoy taking pictures of their food to post on Facebook or something. She forgives him, just a little, only because the oyster chowder and organic potato frites here are delicious.

"So, tell me about this mystery girl who gets my scarf," she asks, wondering only after the words have left her mouth if maybe she's overstepped herself.

The look Arthur gives her over the rim of his coffee cup is really peculiar.

"I think she's going to stay anonymous for now," he replies after a moment, with this oddly incredulous grin on his face.

"I am so going to get back at you for this," Ariadne says, glaring at him because of the way he's looking at her.

"I'm looking forward to it."

For some reason, it's really hard to stay mad, even though she can see he's trying hard not to _laugh_.

 

 

 

So when they finally get around to the job that she was hired for, Ariadne tries really hard not to look stunned at Arthur when they meet up at the airport terminal in Sydney.

"That's a nice blouse," a man with Arthur's voice says.

It's not like he _doesn't_ look like Arthur. Because clearly, this is Arthur she's looking at. Or that she's never seen a man in a suit (she just needs to go down to La Défense). But it's a really _really_ good look on him, especially with his hair all slicked back. Why the hell did he act like it was completely natural, like he dresses this way all the time?

"Like what you see?" he says, and those damn dimples show up.

"I'm sorry, have we met?" she says a little tersely.

Because nobody is supposed to know each other, right? And given the way that Arthur looks distractingly not like how he usually looks (where is the _plaid_? He's got waistcoat and a winchester shirt and a dotted burgundy tie and fancy cufflinks and oh god, that whole thing looks custom tailored), he might as well be a well-dressed stranger.

He doesn't go away, nor does his grin. "Something wrong, then?"

"Yes. No. Maybe," she mumbles, trying to straighten her new jacket. "I'm going to check in."

Because she's not going to forget Arthur in a suit for a very long time.

 

 

On the second level, she finds herself pulling at the edge of her pencil skirt and feels awkward with her whole look, despite how comfortable the material feels against her skin. Her bun feels too tight. She wishes she had a scarf because she feels tremendously exposed.

Of course, then Arthur shows up again (because this is his level).

"Shall we?" he says, all business-like even if his smile just goes a little past professional. Ariadne is too startled by his appearance to protest at the way he takes her arm and leads her up to the couches in the lounge area of the hotel's lobby. She better close her mouth before she looks really stupid. Stupider. Because her whole outfit is making her feel off, because she's not used to dressing this way.

And he's wearing a three-piece suit. Again. A different one. Looking all crisp and _meticulous_.

It's a nice one too (because even though Arthur usually dresses like he bought everything from a secondhand store, she's learned that he's a man with extremely precise and sophisticated tastes). She's pretty sure the waistcoat is silk or satin or something and he's wearing another burgundy tie, this time with a paisley pattern that looks suspiciously like the same print that was on her favourite missing scarf.

"You have to stop doing that..." she says. "Being all pretty in a suit and stuff."

He smirks. "Well, enjoy it while you can. This might be the only other time you see me in one."

Except at our wedding, Ariadne's mind remarks to her. Shut up, she snaps back at it. Job to do, stop Cobb's subconscious guilt from killing all of us, remember? But she can't decide whether she prefers seeing Arthur in a suit or if she likes him better in his reassuring plaid.

"There goes Mr. Charles," Arthur points out, and that pulls her out of her fantasies just like that.

 

(She learns much later that Arthur owns exactly two suits, complete three-pieces, in real life that he pretty much only wears on occasions like this.

Or when he has to pretend to be a lawyer. That he looks extremely attractive in them is a given.)

 

 

 

Three weeks after Inception, when nobody is supposed to call anyone for at least six months, and Ariadne still feels like it's impossible to go back to a normal life until she can talk to _someone_ about this and Miles is taking a month off to spend time with his grandchildren stateside, she receives a package in the mail.

It comes with a plain white card with a number written in a spiky distinct hand. There is a date and time and the word "Dinner," punctuated with a question mark.

Wrapped in tissue paper is the Hermès scarf from the flea market and the silver filigree brooch.

That bastard, she thinks, but she can't stop grinning and wonders if she should call him today or make him wait a while.

 

 

When she opens her apartment door, Arthur smiles ( _that_ smile with dimples) at her. The olive green jacket is back, along with a black band tee. He's wearing converse sneakers.

Maybe she's a little too dressed up for this - the sundress might be overkill? But Arthur doesn't seem to mind and it's Paris. At some point, everyone will be overdressed, she figures, because she guesses he's taking her to a place like where they had lunch before.

But then again, at this point, she should know better than to expect Arthur to be predictable. The fact that he's driving a pristine BMW E89 across the city like he was born to do it should have clued her in. But she honestly thinks she has an idea of what sort of person he's like (most importantly, he's the sort of person _she_ likes).

Which is why she almost faints when they arrive at the fanciest restaurant she's ever seen and wonders if she's missed out on the nature of Arthur's sense of humour between all the flirty smiles and not-so-subtle hand touching.

The maitre d' looks very bemused at the sight of them, but before she can tell Arthur that she's had enough of the joke, the dour looking man's eyes light up in recognition once he gets a good look at Arthur.

"Monsieur, I didn't expect you tonight!" he says cheerfully and then winks at Ariadne. "And with a lovely mademoiselle, no less."

Ariadne tries not to gape. What's going on here? Arthur nods at the maitre d', who ushers them into the restaurant, where only one person gives them a dirty look of any kind, to a very nice spot by the window, mostly out of sight.

Because, why is this guy so weirdly suave and put together? Because the thrift-store chic and plaid should not let him get into a place like this. There is a dress code. Dinner jacket. Shoes that are not sneakers. A _tie_ (preferably burgundy. It's a nice colour).

"You spend a lot of time noticing random things," Arthur says, as she turns to her food instead, because food is a lot less complicated than Arthur.

Especially after she watches him effortlessly charm the entire wait staff and the kitchen into making something that isn't on the menu.

"Are you in the mafia or something?" she whispers over her chocolate mousse cake. "Is that why they all are bending over backwards for you? Or do you own this place? Or are you an alien with some hypno-beam and you're seducing me for some scientific purposes?"

He bursts out laughing. "No, to everything on that list. Though maybe this should count as part of a seduction?"

She shoves chocolate in her mouth. And crème fraîche. She can understand dessert. She doesn't get Arthur (oh but how she wishes she did, especially right now, because he keeps throwing her off balance just when she thinks she gets him).

"I wonder, if you're at all impressed with me," Arthur says, leaning over to adjust the brooch on her scarf. "Because you're kind of dense."

"I'm just here for the chocolate, you know."

"Really?" His hand gently cups her cheek and she feels her face grow warm at his touch. "And here I thought you just wanted your scarves back."

"I'll get my revenge," she says, her eyes narrowing.

She'll start by closing the gap between them.

Oh, good, Ariadne smirks when she pulls away. This is the first time all night that he looks even remotely flustered and he's trying really hard not to grin. This is a pretty good start.

 

 

 

When she wakes up on the morning of the umpteenth night they've spent together, Ariadne crawls out of bed and finds the exact shirt she wants amongst the items that she and Arthur scattered on the floor. She doesn't bother putting on anything else. It sounds like Arthur is already up (probably making French toast, given the way it smells like butter frying).

Ariadne makes her way to the kitchen without looking, her gaze focused on playing with the buttons on the flannel shirt she's wearing. The red and navy checks really compliment her skin tone.

"Good morning," she yawns, seating herself on the table.

"Good morn..." he trails off at the sight of her, looking up at him through her eyelashes, when he turns away from the stove.

His hand moves to the back of his neck, but he doesn't look away. Embarrassment, Ariadne decides, is a new look for him. It's cute.

"That's my favourite one, you know," he mumbles.

(She's probably the only person who can tell his shirts apart aside from him - Ariadne remembers him mentioning it's one of the quirkier reasons why he loves her.)

"Oh, I know. And it's mine now."

Along with probably half the plaid shirts she's stolen by now. It's fair compensation for all the scarves he stole just to get her attention. Because for some reason, asking her out for coffee at that cafe that has the lavender-flavoured latte or inviting her to a jazz club is too _ordinary_ for him.

"You can buy other shirts," Ariadne offers, unfastening a button slowly. "Maybe some nice crisp oxfords, you know?"

She watches him swallow hard, his eyes following the motion of her hands.

"I'll give back all the scarves I took from you."

"I don't know, I sorta like these shirts better. All nice and comfortable..."

Arthur takes a step toward her, but once he gets close enough, she shoves him onto a nearby chair, her hands on his shoulders. His eyes are wide when she slips onto his lap.

"But if you really want this shirt back," she whispers, "you're going to have to persuade me to take it off."

It's really easy to convince her when he kisses her and has her pressed against the kitchen table two seconds later, undoing the buttons with his nimble fingers.

It takes a few more hours, but they both agree she can keep stealing his shirts indefinitely.

"It's a really good look on you," Arthur murmurs.

"Yeah," she says, tracing the curving edges of his mouth with her fingers. "And I think I like this on you."

Because no matter whether he's wearing plaid or Zegna, Ariadne decides, this is the look she likes best on him. Just one smile, the one with dimples he doesn't give anyone else.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. For an _Inception_ -fashion related analysis, I refer everyone to [bennet_7](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bennet_7/pseuds/bennet_7)'s [Picspam of Costumes in Inception](http://bennet-7.livejournal.com/92575.html).
> 
> 2\. I honestly have no idea what hipsters do. I'm sorry.
> 
> 3\. Also, I couldn't stop myself from putting Arthur in a suit. For contrast purposes, I swear.


End file.
